


Where She Wasn't Meant to Be

by maripaz6



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 16:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14674710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maripaz6/pseuds/maripaz6
Summary: When Tom discovers the Chamber of Secrets, he finds someone waiting there for him. And she isn't happy.





	Where She Wasn't Meant to Be

After years of searching, he’d finally found it. The Chamber of Secrets. Two doors loomed before him, engraved with silver snakes which seemed to wink at him as their emerald eyes glinted in the feeble light of his _lumos_.

_Open_ , Tom hissed, and with a groan the two doors swung open. In the gloom, Salazar’s monstrous statue towered above him, and Tom strode towards it, fully cognizant that he was the first Heir to find the Chamber in aeons.

But his pride made him careless. He failed to notice the figure in the shadows until it unleashed a barrage of offensive spells at him. _Stupefy! Expelliarmus!_ it cried as it raced toward him, the soft glow of his _lumos_ coming to reveal a bloody, battered, bushy-haired young woman. _Stupefy! Diffindo! Stupefy! Bombarda Maxima!_

Caught by surprise, Tom barely blocked the spells with his own wordless _Protego_. Then his eyes narrowed. There was someone else in the Chamber. Someone who, judging by the slur written on her forearm, did not belong. She would be dealt with immediately. His wand became a blur as he cast spell after spell; although she managed to either dodge or block most of his curses, one grazed her midriff and she fell to the ground, coughing up deep, dark blood.

Tom wordlessly _accioed_ her wand. Then, he stalked toward her. When he was standing over her, he asked, his voice low, “Who are you?”

She glared up at him with dark, coffee-coloured eyes; then, with as much dignity as she could apparently muster, she pulled herself to the sitting position. Tom noted her robes were already crusted with dried blood and her every breath was deep and shuddering; however, he wasted no pity on the Mudblood. “Who are you?” he pressed. “And how did you enter the Chamber?”

She laughed at that, a weak, broken sound, which almost sounded like a sob. “The Chamber…” she murmured, so low that Tom almost didn't hear her.

Tom growled. “Answer the question, mudblood.”

At that, her expression darkened. Her eyes narrowed, she slowly and deliberately leant over and spat blood over his robes. “Do. Not. Call. Me. Mudblood.”

Tom laughed derisively. “It is written on your arm, you filth. I'd kill you now, but first… _how did you get into the Chamber_.”

Her only response was stony silence, and so Tom sighed. “Perhaps pain shall loosen your tongue. _Crucio_.”

The rush of pleasure that Tom usually received from the unforgivable was dulled, though, as he watched her writhe, screaming and screeching; for some reason, the sight turned his stomach. Finally, tired of watching, Tom lifted the curse, and she collapsed on the cold stone floor.

“Who are you,” he said again, his voice pitiless as the night, “and how did muggle filth get into the Chamber?”

She twitched. “Please— not that curse— not again— I— I can't— I don't—”

“ _Crucio_ ,” Tom said lazily, not even waiting for her to finish.

Her shrieks echoed through the Chamber — and then, suddenly, they stopped. And he hadn't even lifted the curse. She began to cackle as she staggered to her feet, a maniacal gleam in her eye. “Oh Tom,” she sneered, still twitching from his _Crucio_ , “You'll see just how much of a witch I truly am.”

In a flash she’d knocked him to the ground, and then she had her wand in her hand again and she was casting basic hexes and NEWT level spells and Dark, Dark curses that Tom vaguely remembered reading about in Magicke Moste Eville.

Only a witch with access to a proper, pureblood library would know those curses. He lunged to the side, evading the bulk of her attacks, only taking a Bat-Bogey hex to the stomach.

Bats flapping around him, Tom sent a swift array of curses at her, curses which would have left any follower of his crumpled on the ground and mutilated beyond recognition. Then, just to be safe, he threw up a glittering shield between him and her next assault.

And he was glad he did. For from the darkness came the mudblood witch, bloodied and battered, yet still unbroken. She ran full-tilt at him, her dark eyes wild and her bushy brown hair streaming behind her — and then she cut through his shield like a hot knife through butter and she was before him, her wand digging into his throat.

“Wha— What do you want?” he choked out, gasping for air.

She made no reply, though she summoned his wand from him. Then, apparently satisfied, she released him and Tom collapsed into an ignominious heap at her feet.

He scowled up at her, rubbed his throat, then he got to his feet. Pleased to note he towered over her, he growled, “Give me my wand back.”

She laughed at that, a light, tinkling laugh, her dark, chocolate-coloured eyes blazing with an unsettling intensity. “If you think for one second that I'm going to back down, Tom Marvolo Riddle, you are sorely mistaken.” She spun his wand between her fingers. “13 ½ inches, yew with a phoenix feather core.”

He glared at her, then lunged forward in a desperate attempt to take his wand back from her. She danced out of his way, though, chuckling, “Tom, Tom, what terrible manners you have— before we kill each other, oughtn't we have some tea first?”

He scowled at her. “Tea?” he spat, as if the word were poison.

“Yes, tea,” she replied, a mocking lilt to her voice.”In my country, we have a civilized cuppa before we try to kill one another. But I understand you were raised in an orphanage—”

Tom froze. “I see,” he said in a clipped voice. “Let us have our tea. But tell me, Miss…”

She let there be silence. “Geiger,” she finally supplied with a saccharine, insincere smile. “But call me Helena.”

“Miss Geiger,” he replied, stressing her last name, “How will we get food? It is impossible—”

“Yes, yes, the Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration,” she said dismissively. “But conversation is food for the soul, Tom.”

Tom felt his jaw clench. “What do you want with me,” he snapped, “And how did you get in here?”

“Magic, Tom,” she laughed, her dark, intelligent eyes sparkling. “Time magic.”

Against his will, his curiosity was piqued. A mudblood witch his age, dabbling in time magic. What a fascinating contradiction. If he concentrated, he could feel her magic thrumming through her slender frame, filling the Chamber with its intoxicating power.

No. She was a mudblood. She was beneath him, the last of Salazar's descendents. She was mere dirt beneath his feet… and yet Tom still felt grudging admiration for the witch standing across from him, who regarded him with a cool, if slightly crazed gaze, both of their wands in her grip.

A mudblood, yet she easily outclassed any of his followers. A mudblood, yet she almost beat him, Slytherin’s heir. Almost. Though she may think she had won, Tom had one last trick up his sleeve. Letting his eyes drift shut, he thought of his wand, focusing on just how much he wanted it in his hand; when he opened his eyes, he fully expected to see it in his grasp.

But it wasn't. Instead, he held the mudblood witch’s wand. For a brief moment he contemplated cursing her again, but something stilled his hand. She could be useful. Though she was a mudblood, the magic thrumming through her far outstripped that of any of the purebloods knaves he’d ‘acquired’. With her by his side, he could easily remake the world. The thought was quite alluring; she would be rather pretty if she weren't caked in dirt and dried blood.

Mind made up, Tom extended her wand and said as smoothly as he could manage, “Shall we return each other’s wands?”

She scoffed at the suggestion. “As if I'd give you another chance,” she retorted, her grip tightening around his wand. “You're rotten to the core, Riddle.”

“No, I am not,” he replied, his voice calm. “I am practical, and that makes all the difference.”

She chuckled at that, her dark eyes dancing. “I could come to like you, Tom, even if you do become Lord Voldemort.”

At the mention of his alias, he stilled. This witch was becoming more fascinating by the minute. How much did she know? He held out her wand to her, saying, “You have changed my wand’s allegiance, Helena, and I yours. I could not hurt you even if I wanted to. And I do not.”

She smiled at his words, then plucked her wand from his grasp. When she returned his own wand to him, her fingertips brushed against his palm, and Tom could have sworn sparks flew between them. It was electrifying.

Apparently, she felt the same, for she jumped back, fear in her eyes. “Stay away from me,” she warned in a tight, controlled voice, fingering her wand. “Just— just stay back.”

Tom had every intention of doing so, so unsettled was he by his magic’s strange response to her, but then she began to sway from side to side. At first it was only a slight motion, but when her eyes drifted shut and she began to fall to the cold stone floor, Tom found himself taking an automatic step forward and catching her in his arms.

He lowered her gently to the ground, still holding her slight weight in his arms. This witch was thin, almost insubstantial. He moved to brush her bushy brown hair from her dark eyes, and then his blood ran cold.

She was disappearing. Her already pale skin was becoming more translucent, and the sharp edges of her form were beginning to blur; only her dark eyes remained fixed on him, blazing with their bright intensity. “Tom,” she murmured, so softly that he almost didn't hear her. “Look for me in the future.”

He nodded, his throat closing up, and then, driven by some unknown desire, he bent down to press a kiss to her forehead.

But he was too late. His lips barely brushed against her skin when she faded away completely, and Tom was left kneeling in the Chamber of Secrets clutching empty air, remembering his brief encounter with Helena Geiger, and knowing he would never meet anyone like her again.


End file.
